The Burnt Memoir
by freya-sundust
Summary: Pre-Epilogue, After Mockingjay. "If I could play my memories for you, let you watch them and listen to them and feel them the way I did, I would." Peeta says. "Then maybe we could both see how much I cared about you."
1. Prologue

Katniss-

In regards to the conversation we shared last week, I have been working to pinpoint the center of the problem you expressed to me, and I've come to a conclusion. You stated that memories, above all, have been particularly rough for Peeta. In my experience with him, I have found that the best way to solve problems like these is to face them directly. Yes, I am suggesting exactly what you suspect. I believe that the best solution is to share memories, both your own and his, as often as he is faced with the difficulty with comprehending them. Not the way a doctor would share thoughts with a patient, but rather, just the way two friends would reminisce. Tell him about your childhood, ask him about his own. Find what is too tender, too fuzzy. Work around it.

Now, of course, you are not his doctor, nor are you his therapist. You did not come to me for help, it was my bringing up that brought this to light. With medication and some basic tactics I taught Peeta during his stay in the Captiol, he will still be able to function as you have seen. I do not expect you to put your life in hold for Peeta. It can be the hardest thing to watch a person you care for try to overcome something so slowly. But maybe that's key: _a person you care for_. The choice rests in your hands.

Please call me as soon as possible.

Give Peeta and Haymitch my best,

_Dr. P. Aurelius_


	2. Chapter One

My hand hovers hesitantly over Peeta's door, my fingers formed into a tight fist. I rub my thumb across my finger, giving myself one last chance to dart back down the steps and face this another day. I shake my head and take a deep gulp of air. I rap my knuckles against the door, forcing the softest expression I can manage. I bite my lip and duck my head a little, the way a dog might back away when you offer it your hand. It's all quiet for a moment, just the sound of some birds chirping along about spring and love and whatever else must trouble birds, or so I would assume. But then I hear a slow set of footsteps across the floor, coming nearer and nearer, and I back up.

The door creaks open, and Peeta appears. His blonde hair is darker than usual, damp and hanging over his forehead. He's only got pants on, his chest bare, a shirt tucked in his hand. He must be surprised, because he's quiet for a second; a puzzled a expression coats his face. I can't help but glance toward his bare chest and arms, which are lightly covered in marks I automatically recognize as burns. My fingers instinctively move to one of my own burns, right above my wrist. He watches this motion, but still remains silent.

"Aren't you a little cold without a shirt?" I suggest with a mustered smile, and motion toward his stomach. He looks down, and must finally register the fact that he is indeed without a shirt. He lets out an embarrassed laugh and quickly slides his shirt over his shoulders.

"Sorry, I, uh-I just got out of the shower." He says. "I thought you were Haymitch" He adds sheepishly.

"That's how you answer the door to Haymitch?" I ask in mock horror, and he laughs and shakes his head. I laugh too, almost genuinely. _This is good,_ I think._ Laughing is good._

It's quiet for a second, but then he blinks and shakes his head. "Oh uh, here, come in." He says, holding the door open and extending his arm into the house. I can tell he's surprised, especially after the way our encounter last week ended.

It was about four weeks after he got back, only the third time we'd truly spent any time together. He got angry, after I mentioned the cracked window in my bedroom that needed repaired. He started mumbling something about his brothers and windows and I couldn't calm him down. I left, and when Dr. Aurelius called the next day, he could tell that something had happened. He coaxed it out of me before I even realized what I was saying. He was better at that stuff than I realized. Or maybe I've just become easier to coax from.

I step past Peeta into his house. I'm not sure what I expect. Piles of baked bread? The messy confines of an artist? I find neither. His house is, not surprisingly, very similar to my own, with a a few minor differences. The placement of the couch, a painting hanging on a wall found blank in my own home. And even though he's been back a considerably less amount of time than I have, his house seems more noticeably welcoming. The fire is warm and crackling in the fireplace, and a vase of flowers decorates the small center table. It makes the dust coating the mirror in my front hall since it was moved in look absolutely poverty-stricken.

Peeta steps behind me, gently clearing his throat. I look toward him. His hands are pushed in his pockets and his shoulders are stuck in an almost-shrug.

"I would give you the tour," He says, and then holds his hands in the air, "but this is about it."

"It's fine," I say, and nod to make this statement concrete. He smiles and nods back.

How strange to share nods like this. I have known him through pain and tragedy and grief, yet the way we speak now suggests that the only thing we share is the large plot of grass our houses sit on. Simply neighbors, no more. How long until I can know him again? How many games of 'real or not real' must we play before he feels confident enough to just _know?_

"You're here because of Dr. Aurelius." Peeta states. The words suggest a question, but he has no doubt in his mind about my reasons. I debate making an excuse, but his eyes are watching me and I'm not good at lying to him anyway, so I just sigh.

"Well, it's for you." I say. But I don't want this. I don't want him to feel like he is my patient and I am his house nurse. I just want Peeta again. After everything has been torn away, my friends, my family, my life, I just want one absolute. Is that too much to ask?

Maybe in this world.

"And me," I add as an after thought. I want to tell him what I'm thinking, about wanting him and missing everyone, but I'm afraid I will just set something off that I can't stop. So I don't say anything else.

"Okay," he says, and eases into the couch. When he doesn't say anything else, I realize that's my cue.

"Oh, um-" I bite my lip and form my words more carefully. "I want to make a book." I declare, but it comes out in the wrong way and sounds more like I'm asking not stating.

"A book?" he asks. "You?"

"Yes, well, both of us. You can draw, and I can write, and Dr. Aurelius thinks its a good idea."

"Okay." He says, and smiles.

"I haven't even told you what it's about." I say, shaking my head.

" I know. But I decided to just start trusting you a while ago. So if you want to make a book, then I will."

I smile, and let out a little laugh.

"Do you remember when I asked you to run away with me?" I ask him, and he laughs.

"Yes," He smiles. "It was cold, right before the blizzard, and you didn't understand why I agreed to easily."

He thinks about this a while, and so do I. But then I'm thinking about him thinking. About how easily he pulled the memory from the last, without shouting or panting or strangling me.

"You're okay?" I ask, and he sees what I'm really asking.

"I'm okay." He says, and smiles so sweetly and genuinely, I can't doubt it.

"Some of my best memories are with you, you know." He says, and turns his head a little. I don't know what to say, because Peeta's the one with the quick tongue, not me, and because I'm afraid that I might say something that could make him change his mind. So I just smile and so does he and maybe that will be enough for now. And his smiles tells me it is.

"So this book," he says, realizing that I am not going to be the one to break the silence. "Action? Mystery?" he leans across the center table so his lips are closer to mine than they've been in months. "Romance?" I just stare into his eyes for a moment, wondering how it's even possible for them to be so blue, until he blinks. I clear my throat and shake my head.

"A memoir." I say, and this throws him off his game, if even just for a second.

"Oh," he says, and then regains his composure. "And whose?" He asks coolly.

"Everyone who will never have a chance to write their own." I say soberly. And then it's quiet, Peeta thinking and me watching him. Until he opens his mouth again, letting his lips hang there, like he's not sure if he has words to say or not.

"Dead people." He concludes, and I'm not sure if it's the hijacking talking or if he's just become socially obtuse to certain aspects of life. So I don't respond.

"Well, I owe that to enough people." He says, and I nod in agreement. If there's anything I know for sure, it's that I will never stop owing people.

"I'll see you tomorrow then?" I ask once I realize that Peeta is probably thinking more than listening.

"Tomorrow." He agrees, and leads me out the door.

* * *

...

"Dr. Aurelius?" I ask before I end the call later that evening.

"Hm?" He asks through the humming line.

"Would you mind sending me some paper?"


	3. Chapter Two

May

It's a gentle sound, Peeta sawing through a hunk of thick bread, methodically pushing and pulling the large knife-back and forth, back and forth- until an even slice falls from the loaf with a soft thud. He offers it to me, and I take it, ravenous from a busy night of bad dreams. I was running, through the arena and the woods and the maze-like tunnels of District Thirteen all mixed together. I woke up panting, feeling more exhausted than when I fell asleep. So when he offers me a second slice, I don't refuse. It's sweet and soft, and pairs perfectly with the tall glass of milk he pours for me. It feels odd to be taken care of, especially by someone I feel like I should be caring of myself. When we're both finished, he leans back and sighs.

"You've got the paper?" he asks, and I give a knowing tap in the large box on the edge of the table.

"Shipped in this morning." I say, running my nail along the grooved box. It's full of paper, thick parchment that crinkles when you wiggle it. It's similar to the pages of my father's plant book, except more synthetic. You can feel the stronger fibers rather than the flimsy stuff my father scrapped together from the Hob. The pages are mixed, too. Some date back to when the book was first started by my mother's family, and some are newer and crisper. I think of the drawings I added with Peeta, how they were created with such precision and grace. It's magical how the ink flows from his hand, how he creates something beautiful in the matter of minutes. What's a straight shot compared to beauty at your fingertips? If the Games could have been won with talent, not strength, Peeta could have won the entire country over in moments. But maybe he did anyway.

After he rinses the plates and cups in the sink, Peeta lifts the large box of paper from the table-which I could not lift on my own, but he picks up easily and quickly- and whips his head to motion the direction to follow him in.

"Here," he says, and guides me down the hall. The floorboards creek under our feet.

"The door?" he asks, and I step in front of him to turn the knob. It's stuck, though, and I can't make it budge.

"Pull it, then turn." He instructs me, and I try this. I can hear a click as I pull it out, and it turns with ease as I do so. I don't know what I expect to find behind the door; an office, a workspace, maybe. I should have realized.

"Oh," I gasp. I take in a deep breath. It takes a moment before I can let it out again.

The room, just a square with four long walls, seems to consume me. A counter wraps around two walls, facing one of the windows. It is covered in pieces of paper and brushes and splattered paint. A few papers scatter the floor and some empty bottles of paint and broken pencils litter the area. But it's not the clutter of papers that shocks me. It's what covers the walls.

Pictures. Paintings, to be more precise. A collage of faces and scenes and things I don't recognize, pushed together and wrapping around the walls. You can tell they weren't meant to be together, but that they were accidentally formed as one as each new thought of paint was added. It's like I'm seeing Peeta, if he could be painted. His thoughts and his feelings and his fears. This is him.

But this is also me. I see things I recognize. The arenas. The victors. Rue. Cato. Thresh. The glowing silhouette of the Capitol wraps around one corner of the room, the view we shared from our rooms before the Games. I'm there, too. In some splotchy scenes, in my fiery dress, on the train. Some tell a story, others provide only a tiny memory. The shining trident in Finnick's hand. The whiskers that hung over Tigress's dyed and wrinkled lips. A bottle of liquor in a hand that must belong to Haymitch.

Other things don't register. Two children playing in the snow. A plate of cookies. A ring hanging from a thread. A room full of fire. These must be from his past, things he's never shared. I feel odd seeing them now, like they are these personal memories that I shouldn't invade. This is his mind, and seeing it makes me feel like an intruder. But it's beautiful. It's achingly beautiful. The colors are vibrant and make the memories feel fresh in my mind. But this is not a planned piece, a final project. This is must be how he copes. Just like I use the woods as my escape, he escapes through a paintbrush and this wall he calls his canvas.

"Sorry for the mess," He mumbles awkwardly, and sets the heavy box down on the table. He pushes a few papers out of the way, compiling them into a neat stack. He stands by the table, shifting his gaze from his feet to me. He scratches the back of his head as if to provide some sort of explanation, but offers none. I am left to gaze in wonder at his work.

"Peeta," I finally gasp, turning my head the way I always catch myself in the act of, as if I'm trying to comfort him for the pain he's felt and then admire him for the beautiful composition he's turned it into.

"I guess we all have hobbies." He suggests with a sheepish grin, and I send him a sympathetic smile back.

"When did you..." I start, not sure how to finish.

"Some before," He says, looking around. "Some after." His eyes wrap around the room and focus on the farthest corner. He watches it a while and sighs. I take a step closer to him, pushing past him to get a view of what he's caught up on. But I see it almost immediately. It's Prim. Her blonde hair flowing over her shoulders, dressed in the monotone wear of District Thirteen. She's surrounded by gray-people, objects, light-yet she smiles. That wide smile she only showed the people she loved, where her eyes would light up like shining little marbles and made you want to do anything for her. This was the sweet, innocent, little girl I loved. This is the girl who's gone forever.

I try to clear my throat, to assure him that I'm fine and happy and entirely whole, but no sound escapes. I shake my head, lightly as first and then harder, trying to push the sadness away. I have to stay together; I can't let it eat at me like this. But she's there, watching me with her persuading eyes and and I want to pull her close and feel her warmth again. I want to protect her.

Peeta gently touches my shoulder, and I whip my view to the side, startling him. This time he turns his head, gives me the sympathetic smile, sees the fog in my eyes. I swallow like my father used to, when he was about to cry but didn't want to, hoping it will keep the tears from spilling over.

"I'm sorry." He says, "I shouldn't have brought you here. I...I thought...We can do this later." I shake my head.

"No," I say quietly, "No. I want to. Now. This is _why_ I want to. I don't want to feel like this. I want to feel happy again Peeta. I'm so tired of being sad. I have all these ideas and memories and I don't know what to do with them! I just-I need to do this."

It's quiet for a moment, and then he just nods.

"Okay," he says, "Let's start with Prim."

* * *

_Primrose Everdeen was, entirely and thoroughly, joy. She was joy, in every definition of the word. She was gentle; with patients, with friends, with everyone she knew and even those she didn't. She was smart and never boastful, but could listen to even the proudest. She was happy. She was funny. She was beautiful. But most of all, she was brave. I cannot pretend to say I knew everything about her; I know she kept things hidden. She had secrets, just like us all. But if I do know one thing for sure, it is of her bravery. The way she faced everything, with a braver face than I could ever manage. In so many ways, she was protecting me. She was the reason I loved, the reason I tried, the reason I fought so hard. I thought I couldn't leave her behind, alone here. But I see now that I was wrong. She didn't need me to protect her._

_I needed her. _

_I still do. _


End file.
